


grief

by The Master of the Deck (officiumdefunctorum)



Series: Thranduil: The Unauthorized Biography [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Doriath, Elves, Father-Son Relationship, First Age, Gen, Grief/Mourning, LotR nerdery, Missing History, Oath of Fëanor, Post-War of Wrath, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, Sindarin, Third Kinslaying (Tolkien), War of Wrath, biography, gratuitous use of lotr lore, look there wasn't much history of thranduil so I am making it up myself, tolkienesque prose, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officiumdefunctorum/pseuds/The%20Master%20of%20the%20Deck
Summary: Thranduil, it was said, never became lost in the forests of Doriath, for he knew each tree as if by name.
Series: Thranduil: The Unauthorized Biography [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080311
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. counting leaves

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this in the summer of 2015, I think, because the Hobbit movies gave me feelings. My original, and highly ambitious, intention was to look through all the major events throughout the Second and Third ages and hypothesize what Thranduil may have been up to during that time, some of his "origin story", and what some of the details of the more vaguely described happenings would have been. Because I'm me, I added in drama. This is a bit of that.
> 
> Let's be honest, this is all Lee Pace's fault.

_F.A. 400_

_In the Year 400 in the First Age of Middle Earth, Thranduil Oropheriôn was born in the realm of Doriath, which in those days was the home of the Sindarin Elves in Beleriand. A curious, compassionate child, he would often wander through the trees, lingering long beneath and amongst their boughs._

_Thranduil, it was said, never became lost in the vast forests of Doriath, for he knew each tree as if by name._

* * *

A green leaf fluttered in the wind, and Thranduil watched it wriggle and dance with all its siblings, high, high above him.

The trees were all so big! And the leaves, so many, beyond counting, but that did not stop him trying. One day, he would count them all.

He was high into the boughs of a sturdy oak tree, and had counted to nearly three thousand when a familiar voice reached his ears.

"Thranduil, _iôn_! _Aia_ , it is nearly dark, where are you?"

Leaping from the bough, his count forgotten, Thranduil swung himself easily down from the heights to land silently on his bare feet.

" _Naneth_!" He cried, running to his mother's arms.

"By Yavanna, you scamp. What have you been doing?" She chided him, though the smile on her face said he was not really in trouble for wandering so far. Beleg was not with her, so she could not have been too worried for him.

"Counting the leaves," he said, smiling up at her as he stepped away. "They are so many!"

With a musical laugh, his naneth reached down to lift him into her arms. Though he squirmed a little, he settled eventually against her hip.

"The leaves of Doriath are beyond counting, _iôn_. Why try such a silly thing?"

Thranduil huffed. "I was not counting all the leaves of the forest, just one tree! Surely they can be counted."

His _naneth_ smiled at the look of indignation on his face, but shifted him against her hip again. "Ah, but look," she said, pointing to the tree from which he'd come. How he always knew where to find him, Thranduil did not know. "There, upon the branch, do you see?"

Following her finger and her eyes, Thranduil saw the slender branch that extended from the trunk of the tree.

"There are not just leaves, here, but buds," she said, walking more closely and reaching up to trace a finger along the low hanging bough. "And there, below your bare feet, do you see the leaves upon the ground?"

Thranduil did, and he frowned. "I see them."

"Then you see, little one, that these leaves fall and sprout anew. You may count all the leaves one day, and the next— _poof!"_ She said, tapping his nose and making him giggle. "Your count is wrong! Some leaves have fallen, and others were born on the same branch. Perhaps even some have been eaten by insects," she said, and tickled his side until he squirmed and laughed, bidding her put him back on the ground.

"Do not count the leaves, _iôn_ ," she said, settling on the ground beside him and looking up as he had done hours earlier. "Some fall, some grow, and always do the trees change with them. Shall we not just enjoy their beauty and music?"

"Yes, _naneth_ ," Thranduil said, and at her beckoning climbed into his lap to watch the trees, listening to the song of the forest. As the sun sank down into the horizon, the leaves were bathed in starlight, and the young elf was asleep in his mother's arms.

* * *

Iôn - Son

Naneth - Mother

Aia - Ah!


	2. novaer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his young life, Thranduil of Doriath suffered much tragedy.

_F.A 416 - F.A. 587_

_In his young life, Thranduil of Doriath suffered much tragedy. Before his twentieth year, he caught the notice of Melian, Maia and Queen of Doriath herself, who saw in the child great potential and a kindred soul. Little is known of what gifts or knowledge young Thranduil received during his time as Melian_ _’s apprentice, but he would go on to become great in the art of healing and in enchantments of protection and illusion._

 _In his fifty-fifth year, though Thranduil and the elves of Doriath remained safe within Melian_ _’s Girdle, news of the Dagor Bragollach and the breaking of the Siege of Angband caused a stir in even the most peaceful of Sindar. However, it was that fateful and terrible day in Menegroth that Thranduil’s true grief arose, and a millenia long umbrage began._

 _In the Battle of the Thousand Caves, in which the Dwarves of Nogrod slew Elu Thingol and attempted to steal the Nauglamir—and with it, the Silmaril—Oropher_ _’s brother was slain in defense of Queen Melian and the young apprentice himself. Still grieving the loss of his uncle, Thranduil then lost his mentor when she withdrew her protection from Doriath and departed Middle Earth, abandoning Doriath and its people in her grief._

 _Seeing the ruin of his home, and with Melian_ _’s dire portents lingering in his mind, Thranduil cultivated an abiding hatred of the Naugrim for their misdeeds and the death of his beloved kin and king. Not even the council of his much venerated father, Oropher, who held similar ire for the Noldor, was enough to stir his mind, as Thranduil considered the Fall of Doriath to ultimately be the result of dwarven greed._

 _Thranduil_ _’s remaining years in the doomed realm of Doriath were spent in service to King Dior and Queen Nimloth as healer and guardian. When the Sons of Fëanor tried to reclaim the Silmaril from Dior, Thranduil was grievously wounded, and all but one of his charges slain. Unwilling to forgive himself for their loss—young Elured and Elurin most of all—he dedicated himself to Elwing’s protection and, with his father, was among those Sindarin elves that bore she and the Silmaril away to the Havens of Sirion._

 _It was an oath he would be left unable to fulfill, in the end. With the forces of Morgoth plaguing Beleriand, and the last of the house of Elu Thingol under threat from the Sons of F_ _ëanor once more, Thranduil remained in Elwing’s drect service, assisting her in the birth of her twin sons Elrond and Elros. He formed a great bond with the two young elves, and held them as children of his heart, still deeply grieving the loss of Elured and Elurin._

 _In the final, and most grievous tragedy of his early life, Thranduil_ _’s mother and remaining family fell in the Third Kinslaying at Arvernien, victims of Noldorin cruelty and folly. While Thranduil fought with his father to protect the Sindar from the Fëanoriôn, Elwing abandoned Elrond and Elros when she threw herself into the sea with the Silmaril. Their abduction, this time by the brothers Maedhros and Maglor, went unpursued._

_When that terrible battle concluded, Thranduil and Oropher were left bereft of their family and leadership both. Son and Father, forsaking their grief for a time, took some command of the remaining Sindarin warriors, and accomplished many great deeds during what became known as the War of Wrath. While the deed was not celebrated in the aftermath of the war that broke Beleriand itself, Thranduil slew one of the winged Dragons that Morgoth had unleashed on the hosts of Beleriand and Aman, though its fire left him grievously injured and supernaturally scarred._

* * *

"You will not go!" cried Oropher, demanding obedience of his son to the last. "I will not see my son stricken down in the wilds without kin or hope to save him."

"Do you doubt my strength, _adar_?" Thranduil asked cooly, buckling his sword to his belt without heed for the fury building in his father's heart.

"Your—nay, _i_ _ôn_ , I do not doubt your strength. Who among us could doubt the strength of Thranduil, who struck down the very dragon that would claim the life of his father?"

Hearing the softening of Oropher's voice, Thranduil turned to regard him, and saw in his eyes gratitude, and despair for his journey, but Thranduil did not speak.

"Yet that same dragon did you grievous harm," Oropher said as he approached his son, and lifted a hand to his face. Even as the fingers just barely touched the flesh, Thranduil flinched aside. "You are but barely healed. Please, _melli_ _ôn nin_ , do not do this. Do not risk your life pursuing those accursed Noldor. Their doom will find them."

"Yes." Eyes hardening into cold grey, Thranduil pulled back fully from his father's touch, and met his gaze with determination ere he spoke. "It shall. And it will be Thranduil Oropheriôn who gives it to them."

For long minutes, Thranduil prepared his pack and his garb, a pall of silence settling over he and his father.

"Why do you do this, my son?" Oropher asked, at last. "Why do you leave me to carry the weight of our kin when we have lost so much already?"

"Do you not already know the answer, adar?" Thranduil asked, fastening at last a grey cloak about his shoulders—the garment reminded him of King Thingol, still—and turning to face his father once more.

"I do," Oropher replied.

"Then why do you ask if you have not need of my response? Eönwë may let the Sons of Fëanor flee from him, but I will not. The hour grows late and the trail cold. I cannot tarry for counsel or soft words."

"I ask because I would hear it from your lips," Oropher said, and Thranduil paused, shocked at the despair in his father's voice. With wide eyes, he nearly reeled to see the unmasked fury and heartbreak upon his father's gentle visage. "I would hear my son say to me that the very gems that brought slaughter and ruin to our kin, to my own wife and brother, would tear from me now the only light that remains in my long life!"

Stepping backward, Thranduil nearly brought his hand to his sword, but for the tears that now escaped his father's eyes. Warm, stormy grey eyes. The very eyes that looked back at him when he peered into clear pools and polished glass. To see them now so beset with grief alarmed him, and he moved swiftly.

Thranduil closed the distance between them and gathered his father in his arms, both sinking to the floor, two mighty warriors undone by the weight of grief long held heavy in their hearts.

 _"Adar, adar, al n_ _îrron,"_ Thranduil said, surprised and filled with regret for his haste. "Were the Silmarils gifted to me by Manwë himself, I would spit upon them. I would sooner cast myself into the sea as did Elwing before leaving you to retrieve such accursed stones."

"Then do not go!" Oropher cried, gripping Thranduil about the arms where they clutched at his own shoulders. "Do not leave me to carry these burdens alone."

"I must go, father. There are no others who can do this thing, and alas, I fear there no others who wish to do it."

"If not for the Silmarils, then why?" Oropher pleaded. "Why will you seek the Sons of Fëanor when Beleriand lies ruinous in the sea and the mountains are torn asunder?"

Thranduil clutched his father to his breast and, bowing his head, spoke his heart.

"For love of Dior and Nimloth, and of Beren and Lúthien, and of Thingol. For the love of Elwing who delivered us from one of the thrice damned Silmarils, and for love of Ëarendil, who sailed back from the undying lands and delivered us all from Ancalagon and Morgoth. For love of my kin and their own, I would not see their sons condemned to the fate of Elúred and Elurín with none to search them out when the battle is ended at last. I swore to find them, and I will."

"Valar, Thranduil," Oropher drew back, wonder on his face. "For Elrond and Elros? But they are surely dead! It is half a century since last they were seen. Not even Ëarendil looked for his sons ere he sailed."

Thranduil nodded, meeting his father's gaze with quiet resolve. "Ëarendil was burdened with his doom before he ever returned to deliver us from Morgoth. Had his sons stood before him and begged him to remain, he still would have sailed. They are not my kin in blood, but I held their small bodies in my hands and witnessed their first breaths. I counted their fingers and toes and heard their cries under the starlight in Sirion. I laid them in the arms of Elwing and saw the love of mother and father bathe them in light though shadow beset us from afar."

Thranduil breathed deeply, and hardened his own will against the tears welling in his eyes. "I claim them as kin in heart for the sacrifices of their mother and father, and aye, for the love of Elrond and Elros will I brave the wastes of our homeland, yea, and all of Middle Earth beyond. I will not forsake them as I once did Nimloth’s sons, and I have not the burdens I once did. In our people's grief they may think Elrond and Elros long dead, but I will not believe it while hope remains that they yet live."

"Thranduil, _melli_ _ôn_ ," Oropher said, but did not speak more. A quiet pride filled his breast, and though he still grieved at his son's imminent departure when so fierce and desperate a battle they had only just won, he nodded. "I believe your errand will be for naught, but what hope you have I will call my own."

With another nod, Thranduil released his father and stood, turning his back to go.

" _Melli_ _ôn_ ," his fathered said softly, and Thranduil paused. "It is long since you held them in your arms. Should they yet live, it is unlikely they will know you."

Steeling himself, Thranduil straightened his spine and stood tall. He could not look at his father in this moment, or his will would falter.

 _"Boe annin gwad,"_ Thranduil murmured, looking out into the fading light of a red sun. What lay before him this night was hard riding and desperate tracking, alone in a land not yet wholly free from the foul creatures of Morgoth, and worse, not yet free from the Sons of Fëanor and their accursed blood.

"Yes, I see that now."

At his father's voice, Thranduil turned, and were he to look at himself through his father's eyes, he would see a blazing figure of light that defied the grey cloak he bore on his shoulders, as once had Thingol’s.

With a sunset at his back, Thranduil's eyes shone bright and hard, the resolve of a warrior. But beyond all ferocity and grace in battle, Oropher saw the hope and determination of a healer, for even beyond all reason, his son would embark on this quest for a duty with which he had long ago burdened himself. A duty for which he had fought orcs and slain a dragon to fulfill.

It was Oropher’s own failing that he did not see this until it would tear his son away from him, perhaps forever if the Valar saw fit.

 _"Galu, i_ _ôneg."_ Oropher raised a hand to his breast and extended it toward his son. _"Guren n_ _íniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham."_

Gracing his father with a small smile and a nod, Thranduil returned the gesture. _"Novaer, adar."_

Watching his son mount his steed and depart, Oropher was struck with the strange urge to laugh. Smiling wryly at the figure of his tall, fierce and gentle son as it was lost in the distance, Oropher shook his head.

"I believe it is you who will need to remember to be good, _melli_ _ôn nin,"_ he said, chuckling in spite of the heavy weight in his heart. Even after a century of battle and hardship, his son could still muster the effort to give his father cheek.

* * *

Adar - Father

Iôn - Son

Melliôn nin - beloved son of mine

Al nîrron - do not weep

Boe annin gwad - I must go

Galu, iôneg - good luck, my son

Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham - My heart shall weep until I see you again

Novaer - Be well/be good

  
  



	3. duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For four long years, Thranduil bent his ear to the ground and his eyes to the trees and sky, ever trailing his quarry, and though many nights and mornings he despaired of his errand, he continued.

_S.A 1-S.A 5_

_In the days after the War of Wrath ended, Beleriand ruinous in the sea, Thranduil lay in convalescence for half a year as his body and spirit recovered from the dragon fire that had nearly killed him. When Thranduil was well enough, he wasted no time in seeking out Maedhros and Maglor, who had come to claim the Silmarils at the conclusion of the battle. Though the trail was long cold, Thranduil remembered still the song of the trees and that which grew, and set off in pursuit of his long lost charges._

* * *

Whatever else the remaining Sons of Fëanor might be, Maedhros and Maglor were not unskilled at remaining undetected. With distaste, Thranduil recalled the time that the two had spent hiding in Ossiriand after the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. Scarcely had his _adar-tor_ and King Thingol’s bodies been laid to rest beneath the trees than those ragged eldar had come demanding of them the jewel about Dior's neck.

Would that he had been well enough then to forbear Nimloth's children their fate.

Thranduil's mount whinnied beneath him, sensing her rider's wrath, and he eased his grip on her mane, gentling the strands as he murmured her to slow. His enmity would do the Sons of Ëarendil no good; nay, he could not allow his own hatred to guide him, or he would indeed wander the wastes of Beleriand without hope.

Far into the east he had ridden that night, espying signs few and far between of Maedhros and Maglor's flight from Ëonwe's camp. Months and many rains had passed since he lay senseless and near death from the dragon's fell wounds on the field of battle, and almost nothing remained to mark the passage of two misbegotten eldar moving through lands now unfamiliar to all its inhabitants.

Such would have to be Thranduil's salvation, in the end, that what was once familiar land now lay broken and many times halved by the ferocity of battle and Ulmo's wrath.

As the sun crested in the east, Thranduil gazed upon the broken, rocky peaks of the Ered Luin, and knew in his heart what he sought lay beyond. In the sparse forest that remained to the west of the range, Thranduil dismounted and spent a time in reverie to rest his own body and his mount.

Many times that morning he was pulled from reverie by pain in his face and neck. Murmuring words of healing softly to himself, he applied what poultice he could to wounds that never seemed quite gone, and for a time at last slept under the watchful eye of his steadfast mount. It was to her soft but urgent huffing that he awoke. On his feet with drawn sword in an instant, he found himself faced with the drawn bow of another elf.

_"Mae g'ovannen,"_ Thranduil said calmly, not lowering his weapon.

"Are we not?" The elf asked, her dark hair shimmering in the bright morning light that glinted along the tip of her arrow. "Why do you pass this way, iâth?"

"I seeks the Sons of Fëanor," he said, gambling on the mistrust of the Laegrim for the Noldor that had once dwelt in their lands.

The elleth's eyes hardened, and she approached on soft feet, her footfalls not making a sound. "And what for then is this?" She asked, tapping the point of her arrow carelessly against the blade of his sword. "Their service or their necks?"

"Their necks," Thranduil said, meeting her eyes with unwavering promise.

After a moment, the elf dropped her arrow and extended her arm in greeting. Though somewhat thrown by a gesture that seemed too familiar to him, he accepted the custom and grasped her arm below the elbow, returning her nod.

_"Mae g'ovannen,"_ she returned. "Forgive me my suspicion in these dark times. Since the last few cycles of the moon have passed we have feared dark tidings; ever we wait for the ground again to shake and our trees to be swept into the sea. None of our warriors who went to battle have returned, and we are more watchful than ever."

"You need not fear me, nor withstand my presence longer than the hour," Thranduil said. "Long have my people named you guest-elves, and now I myself must claim that title." He offered her a slightly wry smile. "It is I who ask for your forgiveness of my trespass. This land is much changed, and I did not know I had strayed so close to the forests of the Laegrim."

"Ossiriand is changed since last an elf of Doriath came to it. Our forests once stretched nine leagues further to the north; if you have strayed at all it is not far. What is your name?"

"I am Thranduil Oropheriôn, warrior and healer once of Doriath. Might a trespasser have yours in return?" Thranduil asked with a lift of his eyebrows.

The elleth stowed her bow and returned her arrow to its quiver with an indelicate snort. "Call yourself trespasser no more, Thranduil Oropheriôn. What lands we have left are now home to many who seek refuge in this time of grief. I am Melegil, daughter of Morengil, and I carry no titles save those of a woman who wishes to protect what little remains of my people. Tell me, Oropheriôn, what news of the battlefield?"

With a heavy heart, Thranduil recounted what he knew of the last days of battle before Ancalagon was felled and the towers of Thangorodrim cast down, as well as the days that followed in which the Sons of Fëanor returned to claim the Silmarils and Ëarendil departed with the Valar. What deeds of the valor and fall of her people that he could recall he told, and witnessed her pride and sorrow in turn. Finally he told her what he dared of his own errand, still hesitant to reveal it in full.

"Ai, but you bring tidings both wondrous and grievous with you, Oropherion, for many years have I stood sentinel in this forest guarding it from the very wrath that you yourself have faced and defeated," she said at last, her gaze lingering long on the still marred flesh of his face and neck. "Come, rest awhile in my talan and I will share with you what knowledge I have."

"I cannot tarry," Thranduil shook his head. "My mount and I have rested longer than I intended, and I must--"

"Peace, Oropheriôn," Melegil said, holding up a pale hand to stall his speech. "You are in pain, and the trail you follow is already cold. What remains will keep."

Thranduil looked dubiously from her to his agitated horse.

"Trust one who has long dwelt in the forest and tracked mice to their homes, iâth. I would not lead you false when you claim for your sword what I myself would gladly claim with my bow."

With grudging acceptance, Thranduil allowed himself to be lead deeper into the trees, his mount following faithfully, though he could feel its apprehension. Soothing her as best he could, they reached a tall tree, and both ascended into its low boughs.

* * *

Four years he travelled and searched.

For four long years, Thranduil bent his ear to the ground and his eyes to the trees and sky, ever trailing his quarry, and though many nights and mornings he despaired of his errand, he continued. Across the Ered Luin and into the wilds of Middle Earth east of the mountains he searched, finding there forests and creatures he had not known but in legend, and felling still the creatures of Morgoth whence they had fled at their master's fall.

So it was that, just after four years to the day that he had set out from the ruins of Beleriand, weary and heartsick, Thranduil found council in a fascinating creature who changed its form from animal to man at will and at last he passed westward once more, retracing his steps over the Hithaeglir. There, between the mountains and the rivers in the west, he found at last one of whom he sought.

The house was small and mean, but it looked comfortable enough. Likely built and abandoned by men, some years past. In the dark of night he crept into that house, and after an age of hatred and years of pursuit, before him sat Maglor, son of Fëanor.

Sword lifted silently to the neck of his quarry, Thranduil intoned softly and with great menace. _"Mae g'ovannen,_ Fëanoriôn."

_"Mae g'ovannen,_ Oropheriôn. I had wondered when you would find us," said Maglor, his voice revealing that he had known both that Thranduil had dogged his steps, and that he had known of his presence.

Such had he expected of one who could slip undetected into the camp of Manwë's herald. Thus, undeterred by the slight, Thranduil moved his sword and pressed it against Maglor's flesh. "Where are they?" He asked, his voice so low it was almost a growl.

"Sleeping," Maglor sighed. "We have traveled long, and they are weary."

"Tell me, _nosdagnir_ ," Thranduil hissed, rage kindling in his chest. "Do they know the true reason for their weariness?"

Against all logic, Maglor laughed, a soft, breathy sound. Thranduil glared.

"Aye," he said. "They are weary because they have been wrestling and irritating one another all day. Grown though they be, they are young of heart."

Rage spilling over, Thranduil whirled to the other side of the chair and faced Maglor head on, holding his blade all the while steady at the elf's neck. Not a drop of his blood would spill ere Thranduil wished it, and neither his hand nor his blade faltered.

"Do not speak to me of youth, _n_ _âr_ ," Thranduil spat, voice a quiet snarl. "A youth you have stolen from them and they who would call them kin and brothers!"

"Aye," Maglor said, and seemingly to himself. "And would I not call them kin?"

Shocked beyond rage at the statement, Thranduil could only stare. "Truly the arrogance of the Fëanorion knows no bounds!" He exclaimed softly. "He who has slain both grandmother and grandfather, who has destroyed with his greed and foolish oath two places they might have called home, who is guilty of the slaughter of countless of their blood and family! You— _you_ —Maglor, son of Fëanor, would call the blameless sons of Ëarendil your kin?"

Dark eyes finally meeting Thranduil's own stormy grey head on—the eyes of his father, of his people—Maglor spoke.

"Nay," he said at last. "That is an honor I will not claim. Though I love them as if they were indeed of my blood, I cannot claim them as kin. Such a deed even in thought would sully them beyond reckoning, and I would not have such shame upon them as to be claimed by the foolish son of a foolish father."

"Foolish," Thranduil said, his voice quiet and flat beyond the grief and hatred within him. "Foolish! Is that the most to be said for your deeds, Fëanoriôn? That they were foolish?"

"Alas, is it not foolishness to disregard the judgment of Manwë when it is handed down before your very eyes? What more can be said of such a deed and all the heinous acts that follow, but for the disgrace of a fool and his sons? Aye, I have upheld my oath, and a bitter victory it is to me. One I would in the end never have claimed, but for bond of my word."

Maglor's eyes grew steely then, their dark depths hardened with rage that spoke of the age he had lived ere Thranduil breathed air.

"But I will not regret the love of those I have wrongfully taken from what remains of their home and kin. Wrong though it be, I delivered them from the fate from which I could not deliver others. Blameless you said, and blameless they are. Sullied as I was with the blood of your kin—their kin, and mine—I did not leave Elrond to die at the foot of a waterfall, nor Elros to drown in the same waters. I carried them as I carry my regrets, and without evil intent have I kept them thus since the death of my brothers at Sirion."

Shocked more still, Thranduil felt a pang of fear run through his heart at the peril of Ëarendil's sons so long ago. "You delivered them from death? A death you would have inflicted upon them had Elwing not commanded them to flee from you in the first?" Thranduil demanded.

"I would not!" Maglor said, the first flash of anger in his voice that Thranduil had yet detected. "Wanton for blood though some of my brothers might have been, I— _I_ would not, and have not, ever sought the death of my kindred. Lo though I have shed their blood, ever has it been with bitterness and regret, and never the blood of children. Those who kept the Silmaril and the fulfillment of my oath from me, aye, those I killed and will freely admit. Nothing in my long life do I regret more than that oath, and just as much the fate of Elurín and Elúred, Elwing's kin. To deliver her sons from the same fate is no more than I owe to her in recompense or the great wrongs I have done in my life. I saved them, yes, and have kept and protected them while war and darkness raged in what once was home to us all washed into the sea. Fleeing with them that terrible night is perhaps the single thing I have done for which I do not grieve."

Thranduil now marked the hand that Maglor held before his eyes, turning it this way and that as if inspecting a thing he had found discarded in the forest, and Thranduil recoiled at the sight, for it was weathered and scarred like that of an aged mortal man, pink an wrinkled with scars from grievous burns.

His own face throbbed lightly in unintentional sympathy as he looked at the limb, but he let neither sight nor sentiment deter him, though his voice shook with the latter when he spoke again.

"So you saved them from death while I again lay wounded," Thranduil said. "I have heard it said that, among your murderous kin, Maglor Fëanoriôn, you were the most merciful. It seems such tales hold some truth, for I see no lie in your eyes."

"Nay, were I the most merciful of my brothers, I would have rid this world of my sins as did my brother Maedhros when our accursed oath was fulfilled," Maglor said, his voice filled with bitterness and grief, and in his shock, Thranduil let his blade lift from Maglor's neck.

"Maedhros is dead?" Thranduil asked, surprised.

Maglor laughed bitterly. "Do you not see, Oropheriôn?" He held up his scarred and weathered hand. "Even those gems wrought by my father's own hands knew to deliver us to Manwë's doom, in the end! For so wicked were our deeds that they burned the very flesh that touched them, yea, even as they did Morgoth's when first he stole them to set in his iron crown. Maedhros, my strong and beloved brother, he accepted his doom and cast himself into the fiery abyss with the jewel, ridding the world of some of our taint, but I— _I_ could not have such mercy."

Tears appeared on Maglor's face, and Thranduil near balked at this unexpected confession. Had he not come to kill Maglor and bear Elrond and Elros away to safety? Why did he stay his hand and listen?

"For love of Ëarendil's sons, for love of the young children I saved from the water and cruel death, I could not leave this world in peace and tear again from them the only love and protection they have yet known. I cast my own stone into the sea and returned to them." Maglor shook his head and did not wipe his face free of tears. "Nay, Thranduil Oropheriôn. I am not merciful. I am _weak._ "

Though it sickened him to think of it, the very thought anathema to his purpose, Thranduil witnessed Maglor's grief and contrition and knew it to be true. Long had it been since Elrond or Elros had known true kin or love. Maglor, this traitorous elf who had had hand in killing so many of Thranduil's kin, had raised and loved Ëarendil's sons. His scarred hand as proof, he had even at the end cast out the Silmaril he had long labored to retrieve so that he might return to them.

Thranduil watched for long moments, sword hanging at his side as Maglor wept for his brother and for his many terrible deeds. At the last, Thranduil of fallen Doriath found that he had had enough of death, enough of elven blood staining the earth, enough of heartsickness and sorrow. After four years of hunting and hatred, pity grew in his heart, and Thranduil could not kill the wretched elf that sat before him.

But neither could he let things stand.

"You love them," Thranduil said, astonishment still coloring his voice.

"I do," Maglor confirmed.

"You saved them from death, shielded them from war," Thranduil continued, more firmly.

"I did," Maglor again confirmed, just as quickly.

Nodding once, Thranduil met Maglor's eye. "Then for this debt to those I would call my kindred, I will not kill you, Maglor, son of Fëanor, and you have my gratitude. However," Thranduil continued, his eyes alight with the rage he had found once more as he raised his blade and placed it upon Maglor's neck. "For love of them you will _release_ them," Thranduil hissed, stepping closer. "Long have you loved and protected them, Fëanorion, but no more. The blight of Morgoth is gone and this world is healing. You will send Elrond and Elros to High King Gil-Galad in Lindon, and bear a shadow upon them no more. Wither you go after, I care not, so long as you do not darken the paths of me or mine ever again. Your deeds for Ëarendil's sons I myself can count as some small payment of your debt, but many of my kin will not be so merciful."

Though grief was evident in Maglor's face, it was evident such was the fate Maglor knew would once find him. The Noldor nodded and, with tears marring his fair face, he looked Thranduil in the eye. "Truly I do not deserve your mercy, Thranduil Oropheriôn, and such a doom I knew one day would find me. I will ensure that Elrond and Elros are safely delivered to the High King with as much haste as they can bear."

"I will make sure," Thranduil snarled. "Do not think I will leave such a task unattended and unwatched, _nosdagnir_!"

Closing his eyes, Maglor nodded once and conceded the judgment.

Thranduil looked at the elf before him and saw a broken thing. This was not the elf-lord he had heard tales of defending his realm in the years before in the Battle of Unnumbered tears, nor was it the valiant warrior who had struck down Uldor the Accursed and lived to hear the songs sung of the deed. No, this was the beginning of what he had seen so long ago when Maglor had come with his brothers to Doriath for the Silmaril, and yet remained silent all the while. Long ago had Maglor, son of Fëanor, ceased to be the fierce and musical elf who felled orcs and other spawn of darkness with ease and grace. Now he was sad and bitter and empty, but for the love he had for Elrond and Elros, and Thranduil pitied him indeed.

Thranduil pitied him and hated him.

"I will see them," Thranduil said, sheathing his sword and looking at Maglor.

"They are above," Maglor said. "Wake them if you must, but—"

"I will not," Thranduil said, and turned his back on Maglor and left.

On silent feet, Thranduil climbed the scant stairs to the upper level of the cottage. The house was warm in the late spring, but remained cool with an open skylight that allowed stars to shine on the rest of the two figures he was faced with seeing even before he had expected.

The sight of the two young _Peredhil_ on their bed, arms about one another, sent such a shock of grief and joy through him that Thranduil felt as though he had been pierced with a blade, and grasped his middle, wishing such a wound were indeed the only source of his pain. Thranduil found his feet, and moved toward the bed.

By the Valar, but they were beautiful. Each bore the long tresses of their father, and the delicate pointed ears of their mother. In sleep, they looked so peaceful and carefree that Thranduil ached with the memory of their faces as babes, when they had cried and fussed when disturbed of their rest.

Many an elf had felt Elwing's wrath when they had done so, Thranduil among them.

Now, in body they were grown; hardened by travel and the peril of living in a world at war, shielded from it though they were. Already they bore some faint scars, and Thranduil felt his gut clench that he had not been here every step of their life to train them, teach them and heal them in everything that had followed their birth.

Truly had he failed them, the twins and their parents, having let this lie for so long. That the only love they had known as grown eldar was that of their abductor turned savior soured Thranduil's stomach, and as grateful as he was that they had known love at all, he could not reconcile his bitterness and hatred for Maglor with his love of Ëarendil's sons.

At length, Thranduill cleared his thoughts and just looked at them. Beautiful, strong, and peaceful. Bending at the knee to loom quietly over their sleeping forms, Thranduil very delicately placed a hand on each of their brows, and breathed out quiet words of blessing and healing. When he finished, he placed a feather light kiss on each of their brows and repeated the same words his father had said to him.

_"Guren n_ _íniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham."_

It was less than a day hence that Maglor and the sons of Ëarendil departed from the homely cottage east of the mountains, and a fortnight more until they reached the border of Lindon. Thranduil did not watch or listen to what words were exchanged between the three elves, but at the stunned and stricken faces Elrond and Elros bore when they were received alone by the border guardians in the High King's realm, Maglor had told them everything.

Seeing them safe in the arms of the High King, Thranduil finally allowed himself to slump against a tree and weep. Weep for Elwing and Ëarendil, for their sons who were lost to them and to them their parents, for his dead kin and mother, for the countless horrors he had witnessed both in the borders of his home and at war, and finally for Maglor, the most pitable and noble of Fëanor's sons, who had forestalled death, bitterness and great grief so that he might love Elrond and Elros.

It was long ere he stopped, and when he did, Thranduil fell into an exhausted sleep amidst the trees and the soft earth.

* * *

Nírnaeth Arnoediad - Battle of Unnumbered Tears

Adar-tor - Uncle

Mae g'ovannen - well met

Iâth - Elf of Doriath

Laegrim - Laiquendi, green-elves; called Nandor by the Noldor because they turned back from the call of the Valar and remained in Middle Earth during the Age of Starlight. Sometimes called Guest Elves by the Sindar, as they came west with Denethor over the Blue Mountains after Doriath was established.

Fëanoriôn - Son of Fëanor

Oropheriôn - Son of Oropher

Nosdagnir - kinslayer

Nâr - rat

Peredhil _-_ half-elf

Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham - My heart shall weep until I see you again


	4. eastward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Thranduil crested the hill and espied the settlement of Mithlond, the first thing he saw past the docks in the distant bay was a ship sailing into the west.

_S.A. 4 - S.A. 20_

_In the years Thranduil sought after Elrond and Elros, the settlements of elves in the new kingdom of Lindon were restless. The Sindar remained separate from the Noldor, choosing to settle in Harlindon under Celeborn_ _’s fief, while High King Gil-Galad ruled over the elves from Forlindon._

_C_ _írdan the Shipwright remained in Mithlond, what became known as the Grey Havens, where he helped elves long aggrieved of life in Middle Earth to sail into the west for the white shores of Aman, as he had for many centuries._

* * *

In his absence, it appeared his people had not been idle—Thranduil had not expected them to be. Traveling west and north on a word from Melegil, Thranduil made his way to the newly established Mithlond.

When he crested the hill and espied the settlement of Mithlond, the first thing he saw past the docks in the distant bay was a ship sailing into the west. The sight nearly stopped his heart in his breast.

Urging his horse forward with renewed haste, Thranduil flew across the light hills and between trees. It was close to another hour of riding before he and his sweating mount reached the docks, and Thranduil leapt from Sedrynor's back while still she ran, alighting upon the ground without a stumble.

Looking wildly around, he could not see anyone, but turned abruptly when the sound of a great bell tolling drew his attention.

"Aia, Oropheriôn! _Aldol na vedui!"_

Gazing out toward the tall watchtower, Thranduil could not restrain a relieved smile at the sight of Círdan, his old friend's silver hair billowing in the salt-wind off the sea.

_"Mae g'ovannen_ , Círdan!" Thranduil raised his voice to return the greeting. "What news?"

In a skillful maneuver, Thranduil watched Círdan rappel down the tower with a long rope, and waited somewhat impatiently for the edhel to jog over to him. Seemingly unwinded and unruffled by the effort, Círdan greeted him with a hand on his heart and received his greeting in turn before speaking.

"It is good to see you again, young Thranduil. Many have feared you lost to the wilds of Middle Earth forever!" Círdan laughed.

"But not you, of course," Thranduil responded, shedding his cloak and resting it over his mare's back.

"Indeed not! I espied you riding out of the hills after dawn. Your father is on a riding patrol, but he will return ere sunset. He will be most pleased to see you returned."

Thranduil nodded, but found he could not now muster the will to smile, as his gaze was drawn again to the white sail disappearing into the west.

Following his gaze, Círdan sighed.

"Many have sailed, _mellon_. More will go."

Saying nothing, Thranduil watched the ship disappearing across the water in silence, wind at his back moving his tangled hair about his shoulders.

"Ai, but you look a fright, _mellon nin_ ," Círdan said, eventually. "Come, refresh yourself and we will speak. I believe we both have many tales to tell."

As they walked to the lone stable, Thranduil let his hand rest on his mare's mane, running his fingers through the dusty brown hair.

"When I saw the ship, and no others, I feared—" Thranduil stopped.

"Your father and closest friends of the Sindar remain, Thranduil. They would not sail without you. In your heart you know this, why do you question it?"

Alighting on the stable, Thranduil stepped inside.

"Forgive me, it has been a long journey and my heart is heavy with grief. There is little space in my mind for wisdom at present."

Círdan smiled at him, and Thranduil still could not return it. The elf rested a hand on his shoulder and gave a single firm squeeze before releasing him.

"You have many long years yet to acquire wisdom, Oropheriôn. You will find there is room for both wisdom and grief." Círdan paused, searching his face. "Aye, perhaps you already have."

Nodding abruptly to Sedrynor, Círdan turned to go. "See to your horse; I believe she is as weary as you are. lI will await you in the _Belegdab_."

Thranduil nodded at Círdan, and the old elf left.

Weary but unhurried, Thranduil brushed down Sedrynor and murmured words of thanks to her. She had borne him long, swiftly and faithfully, on his journey, true to her name in every way. Thranduil was again relieved that she more than himself had escaped their many toils and dangers without harm.

An unfamiliar young elf, perhaps one of the Nandor, came and assured Thranduil that she would be well fed and looked after in his absence, and Thranduil thanked him before departing.

The _Belegdab_ was not difficult to find, as it was the only house in sight of the stable and docks. Large, but practical, Thranduil could see at once that it housed many, but not nearly as many as had remained of his kin when he had left.

Could so many truly have sailed to the Undying Lands in his absence? Such grief that they had born, and many subject to horrors unimaginable in the pits of Angband ere it fell; Thranduil wondered if he were deeply flawed to carry such grief of his own, and yet did not long to leave this land to its perils. It seemed his fate was drawn ever eastward toward escape of memory, instead of westward to peace.

With determination, Thranduil left his dark thoughts behind and was greeted by Círdan at the large doors before he could finish ascending the wooden steps.

"Come in, come in. Food and drink await you."

Thranduil was relieved to meet only a few elves—and none who knew him by sight—in their short walk to Círdan's quarters. There he had prepared a light but filling repast for them both. Círdan spoke but little of import as they ate, expounding upon the settlements in Mithlond and Forlond beyond the hills and trees that ensconced the _Belegdab_ and the docks.

The words brought a measure of relief to his heart. His people were not gone, merely scattered and preoccupied. To his surprise, most remained in Harlindon under Celeborn's rule, fief to the High King. Some were in Forlond and Mithlond, but they were few. Círdan said nothing of those sailing westward, but Thranduil could tell he was offering what encouragement he could to Thranduil's darkened spirits.

"Enough talk for now, _mellon nin_. You should rest. The day grows short and your father will be returning. It is lucky you came first to the docks, or you would have missed him."

"Missed him?" Thranduil echoed. "Does he not reside here?"

"Nay," Círdan shook his head. "He stays with the Sindar in Harlindon and spends much time speaking with Celeborn, but he rides often to your kin in the three outer settlements."

"But not to Forlindon," Thranduil stated.

Círdan fixed him with a look that spoke volumes of the obvious statement. "Gil-Galad is no king of Oropher's. Ëarendil might just be the only Noldo he's ever really liked."

"He was," Thranduil confirmed. "With good reason."

"I'll not make an argument of it," Círdan said, raising his hand in a gesture for peace. "The Sindar are restless enough in that forest without anything getting stirred up between us. There are Noldor here, though, Thranduil. They come to await the ships." Círdan smiled then, something sorrowful in the expression. "War cares not for the titles or names of those it hurts, Oropheriôn. You know this. I would see that any who seek peace find it, whatever direction it lay."

Saying nothing, Thranduil rose from his seat and allowed Círdan to lead him away to an empty room on the same level. It had often been a source of irritation that Círdan so easily knew his heart, ere he spoke of it, but the elf had lived an age longer than he—Círdan was centuries older than his own father, Oropher. It ought not surprise him that he could hide nothing when he'd yet to reach his second century of life under the stars.

"You'll find everything you need, here. I had it prepared when I first caught sight of you this morning."

"Your eyes are ever sharp, _mellon nin_ ," Thranduil said, surveying the room.

Long ago seemed the days when he had lived in peace and seeming luxury in Menegroth. He felt a pang of loss that he thought might never leave him at the thought of beautiful Doriath and those lost days with Melian and his kin.

"The more fortunate for you, lest you arrive to a cold hearth!" said Círdan.

Thranduil graced him with a tired, but real, smile. "Your hearth has ever been warm to any who would come, _mellon_ , most especially to my kin. I thank you again."

"Rest well, Thranduil," Círdan said, his sorrowful smile again tilting his lips as he left.

Thranduil stood there a moment in the unfamiliar room. Weary as he was in body, his mind was ever wearier with grief. He had succeeded in his quest, but felt no peace at its completion. Nay, returning westward had only made his heart heavier, for it was to no home that he returned. All he felt at coming to Lindon was more grief that it was not the land of his birth.

Doriath was long fallen, and its dregs swept away. Here in Mithlond was the closest even to Sirion many would ever know. His people were sundered and afraid; he could feel it. He knew many had flocked to the strength of Gil-Galad in Lindon and joined with the Laegrim and what remained of the people of Gondolin, but what had become of the remnants of the once mighty realm of Doriath was scattered here and there. No home was left to them save what they might find amongst their brethren, and Thranduil himself knew in his heart he could not remain here.

At last, Thranduil's exhausted body forced his aggrieved mind to submit, and he fell into reverie as he looked out the window from the bed, and at length, sleep.

* * *

Thranduil awoke to a sensation he had not known for eighty-five years. Ever would he count the days and nights since last he beheld his mother, fair and fey in her ferocious love.

Blinking his eyes to full wakefulness, Thranduil saw in the gloom of firelight a cascade of golden hair, and a face he would know were he blind.

"Adar," he whispered, fearing to break the hush. In that moment, his grief abated, and he was struck with such gratitude and love that he had this, at least, to which he could return evermore.

" _Melli_ _ôn_ ," his father replied, and all the while continued to stroke his hand over Thranduil's brow and through his hair, still slightly damp from the wash he had had ere he slept.

In silence they embraced, and Thranduil, overcome with grief and gratitude, felt tears on his face. At last, they separated, and Thranduil looked into his father's eyes—the grey eyes of the Sindar—and spoke.

"I found them," he said, and his throat felt thick. "I found them, adar, and Maglor, but I could not--"

"Peace," his father said, silencing his speech with a warm hand on Thranduil's now long healed face. No visible scar did he bear, though he felt the burn of the dragon fire sometimes still. "I care not for quests and endings right now, I care only that my son is returned at last, and my heart troubles me no more."

Oh, how Thranduil wished his heart were so light, but even in that moment he could share the joy of reunion; a joy of which many of his kindred had been deprived.

For a while they embraced and reveled in the mingling of their spirits and warmth, sharing in the light of fire and stars in the deep of the evening, but they drew apart and Oropher spoke.

"You are as young and fair as ever, _melli_ _ôn_ , but I see in you a wisdom you had not when last we parted," Oropher said, and now was the time for words he could share with only one.

And so Thranduil told him of his journey, and of its end. His words were heavy with grief and often he stopped to weep, for at last the weight of his many trials and the losses of the war could not be kept at bay.

All through the tale, Oropher sat and listened, prompting seldom and always with a gentle hand in his hair or a ready embrace.

When at last he spoke of his final sight of Ëarendil's sons and his journey to Mithlond, Thranduil could speak no more, for now his mind and heart both were weighed down by the uncertainties of the future, both for his kin and for Elwing’s children.

"My son, my brave son," Oropher said, holding Thranduil to his breast as he would a child; and was he not to Oropher's long years on Middle Earth just that? A thousand years had his father walked the grasses and sands of Beleriand, in which time Thranduil had known but two centuries marred with war and grief.

Thranduil could only cling to his father without shame, for there was no one else left to him, now that he had given up Elrond and Elros to the High King.

"How I wish you could have known more than the grief this age has brought you. Lo, now we live in a new age, and I must do what I can to preserve our kin and renew what light we have within us,” murmured Oropher, looking out into the moonlit night.

"Eastward," Thranduil said, for he knew his father's mind like his own. In such closeness their thoughts were open to one another, and Thranduil welcomed the connection, for it mirrored his own heart.

"Aye," Oropher said, a wistful smile in his heart. "Eastward. I have seen in your thoughts mountains and plains and creatures of song, _melli_ _ôn_ , but above all I see trees and growing things."

"A great wood, trees strong and green," Thranduil said, closing his eyes and seeing the expanse he had beheld; trees for which he had almost abandoned his quest upon sighting them.

For a while they sat in mingled reverie, the scent of trees and fresh earth wafting about them as close as if they were standing beneath the very boughs of the wood.

"A new beginning," Oropher said, and Thranduil felt light for the first time since he had once cradled two elflings, dark of hair, in his hands and seen their bright eyes looking back.

_Eastward._

* * *

Sedrynor - faithful and fast (sedryn/avor)

Aldol na vedui _-_ hail, at last; well met, at last

Mellon - friend

Mellon nin - my friend

Belegdab - strong house; Hall

Noldo - Noldorin elf

Melliôn - beloved son


	5. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though many of his fellow Sindar sailed west in the years between his return to Lindon and the departure of the Sindarin Host, Thranduil never felt the call of the sea or the longing for Valinor.

_S.A. 20_

_Chafing under the rule of High-King Gil-Galad, as well as that of Celeborn and Galadriel, Oropher eventually gathered a host of the remaining Sindar of Doriath and those Nandor who wished to accompany him and departed east to establish a new home beyond the Hithaeglir, in a great forest Thranduil had explored during his travels._

_Though many of his fellow Sindar sailed west in the years between his return to Lindon and the departure of the Sindarin Host, Thranduil never felt the call of the sea or the longing for Valinor. Long known amongst his people to be of greatest affinity to the trees and growing things of Arda, the elf of Doriath told may tales of the sights and wonders that awaited the host in that far away forest._

_There was the Woodland Realm in Greenwood the Great established amongst the Silvan elves that dwelled there, and Oropher crowned the first Sindarin king of elves since the death of Dior Eluch_ _îl in the Second Kinslaying a century before._

* * *

The sea was beautiful.

Waves crashing upon a rocky shore, white foam at its crest; salt on the wind moving his hair and filling his senses. A gull cried, and Thranduil heard only the call of a hungry seabird.

Thranduil breathed, and turned away.

His heart was filled with green.

Looking to his left, he beheld Círdan, and the other elf nodded.

"Find your peace, _mellon nin_ , and know that I will always be here should it lie to the west."

From somewhere within him, a smile crawled onto his lips, and Thranduil embraced Círdan. His elder in so many ways, but a true friend in ways more than that.

"Look not to my coming in haste, _mellon_ ," Thranduil said, his smile stretching. "For my fate lies with the forest and the trees. Until they are no more will I dwell there, for thither lay my peace."

Círdan smiled, sorrowful and enigmatic, and said nothing. He bowed his head and pressed a fist to his breast, then stretched his hand open in a gesture of parting.

Thranduil returned it, and looked no more upon the sea or the shipwright. He raised himself up on Sedrynor's back, and rode out to meet his father and his people.

Sixteen years had passed since Thranduil's return, and in that time Lindon had flourished, but his people were ever restless.

Most of the Sindar who had survived the war had settled in Harlindon, eschewing Gil-Galad's rule but consenting to Celeborn's, fiefdom though it was. Here they were apart and yet still helped to create a home. For some, it became home, and their restlessness abated. But more, ever under Oropher's guidance, had been preparing to leave the remains of Beleriand for the lands east of Ered Luin that were now opened to them through the Gulf of Lhûn. The eldest among them, and several of the Nandor, had seen the great wood that lay beyond the Hithaeglir during the age of starlight, and their stories spread far and wide amongst their kin.

Others wished to stay with Gil-Galad in Lindon, for love or fear, and none begrudged them their choice. Celeborn and Galadriel had somewhat eased the enmity and fear that lay between the Noldor and the Sindarin elves of Doriath, but for many, they cared not to make a distinction between who had slain their kin and who had sat idly while it happened.

Still more had come, and continued to come, to Mithlond and to Círdan, seeking their peace in the west and finally relenting to the Valar's call, sailing forever to the Undying Lands, to Valinor.

But Thranduil's heart lay not with the sea. Not yet.

Thranduil—for love and duty he had journeyed east across mountains and plain and into woods. For grief and despair, far had he traveled, and in the end returned to his father and kin, and now with them he went eastward once more.

Nearly twenty years after Thranduil crossed the Ered Luin for the first time, he prepared to make his final journey.

As they approached the mountains, Thranduil looked to the south and west for one last time. In the years he'd lived in Harlindon, he'd not set eyes on Elrond or Elros. News sometimes reached his ears through the Laegrim that often served with the Marchwardens that they had settled with their Noldor brethren and were becoming into hearty warriors, brave and kind.

Whispers concerning the once lost Sons of Ëarendil ever circulated, but Thranduil could not bear to listen to them. Even among the Sindar, few knew or remembered that he had once been their nurse and companion when Elwing still lived, and Thranduil did not care to share his grief.

He wished he could seek them out and bear them away to the great wood in the east, steal them from Gil-Galad as once Maglor had stolen them from Thranduil, but he could not. Their fate lay with the Noldor and their Kingdom, and his lay with the trees.

As he looked to the expanse of the forest in the north and east, words welled in his heart, but he had no taste for them.

 _"Novaer,_ _Ëarendilliôn,"_ he murmured on the wind, and turned to go.

So departed the host of the Sindar into the east with Galadriel and Celeborn's blessing, though he'd had have found it quite amusing had either attempted to stop Oropher if they were disinclined to give it.

Long was their journey, but peaceful, for among the thousands that went with them were many warriors and elves strong of body and heart, ready to leave their grief behind for a new beginning. Through the mountains and hills they marched, ever and anon across rivers and past the villages of men, and came at last to the forest.

As one, their great company halted, and the Sindar came to the wood, ever great and green before them.

"Aia, _melli_ _ôn_ , it is more wondrous than I could have imagined," his father said, eyes bright and fierce as he beheld the trees that went on and on to the north and south, and ever deeper to the east.

"Then let us venture forth, and seek our new home, _adar_."

"Yes," said Oropher, and raising a horn to his lips, he blew a strong and vibrant note, raising spirits and hearts to his call. "Into Greenwood the Great we go! Forth!" He said, and then quieter, so quiet that only Thranduil could hear. "Forth toward home. Long under leaf and bough may we protect it."

Thus began the Second Age of Middle Earth for Oropher and Thranduil, and the reign of the King of the Elves in the Woodland Realm.

* * *

Novaer, Ëarendilliôn - Be well, sons of Ëarendil

**Author's Note:**

> To all five of the Tolkien nerds who have made it this far, I've probably fucked up some lore or some facts. Just go with it, and thank you for joining me on this ridiculous, self indulgent adventure.


End file.
